returning it for a touchdown. “Bastards!” John yelled. He took a long sip from the beer bottle. “People die and aren’t missed all the time. If I didn’t have Helen, the same could happen to me.” He took a puff on the cigarette, choked on the smoke and had trouble catching his breath. He put the cigarette in the glass of water.
Joe tapped his cigarette on the edge of the water glass. “I found this at Swedge’s estate sale.” He removed the 2x2 photo of Paul Rothstein from the breast pocket in his golf shirt.
“Can’t see a fucking thing without my glasses,” John said, grabbing a pair of readers on the end table. He took the photo, turning the wheelchair so the light from the windows came over his shoulder. “Handsome fella. Flyboy.”
“Turn it over,” Joe said.
“Paul Rothstein!” John gasped. “I thought his ranting and raving about a guy named Rothstein was nothing but him being a lunatic.”
Joe finished his Guinness and lit another cigarette. “I have Preston’s passport. Did you know what he did for a living?”
“Something with oil,” John said with a far away look. “It was in the obit.”
Joe grabbed the arm of the wheelchair and turned John to him. “He worked for the State Department.”
“People leave government jobs. They got to do something.” John turned the wheelchair back to the television. “
“Other papers I found lead me to believe he was on a secret mission during the war, and I think Paul Rothstein was involved.” Joe said, leaning on the five-iron.
John finished his bottle. “A long time ago, I told you if you wanted to be a detective, you had to think like a detective. Find out if Paul Rothstein is alive, and if he isn’t, find out when, how and the circumstances of his death. If you figure it out, come back and tell me why Swedge acted like an ass for forty years.”
Chapter 7
WESTFIELD, NJ SEPTEMBER 2000
ROSA ARRIVED EARLY, banging through the door at 10:00. She had been working upstairs for forty-five minutes before pushing a vacuum into the den. “I got to take Ricardo to the doctor,” she said, holding a plastic bucket containing a selection of cleaning products. “If I no finish everything, I’ll do it on Friday.”
Joe didn’t ask why—Ricardo had been a hypochondriac since Rosa was a nanny for Emily. “Not a problem,” he replied, not looking away from the computer screen.
“I found this on the side of the bed.” A gold bracelet dangled from her hand.
Joe turned to Rosa. The bracelet belonged to Alenia. “I’m sleeping upstairs again. You should be proud of me.” He took the bracelet and placed it into the change pocket of his Levis.
Rosa sniffed the air. “This room stinks.” She opened one of the windows. Removing a can of air freshener from the bucket, she attempted to mask the tobacco smell with a heavy dose of lilac scented spray. “You got school today?” she asked, dumping the coffee can ashtray into the bag.
Joe scratched the stubble on his chin, silently cursing himself for signing up for Geopolitical Systems. Maybe the booze, beer, and assorted prescriptions for his pain and depression had affected his brain. Maybe he couldn’t keep up with kids half his age. Maybe he just didn’t care. What difference would it make, if at the age of fifty-two he got his master’s degree in history? “Yeah.”
The half page on the LCD screen of Joe’s computer was testimony to his inability to concentrate and his ability to waste time. Word could check spelling, syntax, and grammar but couldn’t finish the research paper. The drop date for getting out of Geopolitical Systems without penalty was the next day. He had to make a decision and didn’t have the luxury of waiting till Friday to talk things over with Dr. Headcase. Quitting anything didn’t exist in the Henderson family’s psyche—until now.
Rosa picked three crushed beer cans from a wastepaper basket beside the desk, placing them into the bag. She reached for a can on the desk.
“Leave it,” Joe ordered. “It’s part of my breakfast.” He nibbled on a piece of buttered rye toast and took a swig from the bottom of the warm can of beer opened in the middle of night. “I ran out of coffee.”
Rosa attached a brush to the end of the vacuum’s hose. “These books are so dusty.”
“Do me a favor and clean another room. I’m trying to get this done,” Joe said, rocking back in his father’s chair. The research